In homage to Kathi Kamen Goldmark, who died in May, Sherith Israel on California Street was festooned on Monday with all things leopard - pin-on ribbons, programs, tablecloths, napkins and plates - and crowded with folks who had heeded the gathering announcement's note ("sequins, leopard print and vamp attire permitted"). Many boldfaced names were there, as a few folks reminded me the next day, when I pondered what to say about a memorial that was, like its honoree, genuine and glitzy at once.

Goldmark had worked as an author escort, editor and music producer, then as a longtime producer of "West Coast Live." All of this brought her into contact with boldfaced names, and among her many feats, she organized the Rock Bottom Remainders, a rock band of famous authors. Musicians and writers were at her memorial, along with family members, co-workers and acquaintances, and it looked like - such a huge gang - just about everyone she'd ever met. As it was said there, that was what Goldmark was like: If you encountered her, you were an acquaintance; if you were an acquaintance, you became a friend; if you were a friend, you became a lifelong soul sister/brother.

Kathi, who wanted to call a book she and her husband, Sam Barry, were working on about her breast cancer and his colon cancer "Tits and Ass," Kathi, who persuaded Amy Tanto don dominatrix gear and sing "These Boots Are Made for Walking," Kathi, who dispensed good food, good humor and kazoos with equal generosity, wasn't a halfway sort of person.

But if it seemed she loved everyone, the love she felt for her son, Tony Goldmark, was visibly 10 times as intense. She glowed when she spoke of him, lauded his accomplishments as a songwriter and creative person, encouraged and nurtured his every endeavor.

So when he began his remarks with the warning that he was likely to be emotional, but "I must speak from the heart," it was when I could most picture her at this solemn hullabaloo of a ritual. "What kind of house of worship," he said, his voice rising with the question, "offers no free parking?"

-- The Chronicle's L.H. was on Muni the other day when the operator came over the loudspeaker system and made an announcement. Her ears didn't perk up until a few sentences in, so let's assume that he began by saying he had left his wallet home that day.

He said he was a good person, didn't drink, didn't smoke. Then he asked, "Can somebody give me a couple of bucks for a McDonald's? Next stop ..."

-- Strange de Jim sent along a photo of a curb at 18th and Noe on which someone has stenciled, in pink and purple, Unicorn Parking.

Poet Diane di Prima, former San Francisco poet laureate, has been suffering from an array of health problems - teeth, eyes, back, knees, more - as well as financial problems. So poet Michael McClurereached out to members of the poetry community, asking for help.

One of the folks who got his note was actress and poet Amber Tamblyn, who, while blogging that di Prima's memoir had "changed me on a fundamental level," set up a donations page at GiveForward. Di Prima, 78, "was one of the only women of the Beat Generation," wrote Tamblyn, "and was instrumental in shaping the way we view gender based politics."

When she informed di Prima about her campaign, wrote Tamblyn, di Prima said, "That's all great and we need the money. ... but more importantly, how are your poems coming along these days?"

Roby, an old friend of Ferlinghetti's, took his kitchen clock from off the wall for the show. He'd painted on its face "Brother, observe the time and ..." a reference to the line - "Son, observe the time ..." - on the clock tower at Old St. Mary's.

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Public Eavesdropping

"I'm sorry, lady. I am unable to supply you with the provenance of that artichoke."

Bagger to customer at Trader Joe's, overheard in Rockridge by Claire Isaacs Wahrhaftig